


To Love is Henceforth to Condemn

by poneen



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables (Dallas 2014), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Like night before the barricade, Pre barricade, enjonine - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21781876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poneen/pseuds/poneen
Summary: “You say such things, yet with our talks I find it is you inspiring me. I ought to allow you your own soapbox, mademoiselle.”The words caused Éponine’s pale cheeks to turn a sullied pink, though she assumed the dirt caking them was enough of a disguise.“These are words I will reserve for you, monsieur. No living soul must know that I have cognitive thought outside of my pure wit.”
Relationships: Enjolras/Éponine Thénardier
Kudos: 27





	To Love is Henceforth to Condemn

“Tomorrow will be a day filled with blood, ‘Ponine. You've no obligation to tend to the barricades.” He mentions, a gentle whisper; dissimilar to his earlier speeches of the revolution, when he spoke with fire and a taste of venom on his tongue. No, his comment was only for her, sweetly, yet she doesn’t respond. They’ve had talks of her involvement in the revolution; she’d done wonders, prevented deaths, yet as each day drew nearer he would insist that she took no part in the barricades. Éponine insisted right back, so much that she didn’t feel it necessary to respond. Softly, he questions,

“Aren’t you afraid?”

Her response is delayed, though steadfast. She speaks as if she hadn’t in years and years, the alcohol on her breath creating a familiar and unwelcoming rasp, as if she’d aged indefinitely in the span of a day. She nursed a bottle of brandy, stolen, like it was her child, and bore the animalistic look of maternity, peasantry, and war. “No, monsieur. Not for myself.”

All was quiet.

“For the innocents, I suppose,” she continued, intrepid and disregarding his curious gaze. Enjolras had never truly seen Éponine as anything less than strong. “What will become of them? The beggars?” Another pause. “Gavroche?”

“What of them? They will be nowhere near the battle.” This he was convinced, as Enjolras seldom spoke anything outside of the truth. “If Gavroche will not listen to me, it will be Grantaire. And as for the beggars,” He trailed, acutely aware of her eyes— brown— boring into him. For a moment, he became breathless.

“The future will do them well. There is no place for such division in our country, ‘Ponine.”

She smiled something soft at his words, feeling, at once, hopeful for life after the revolution. If not for her, for her brother, for Azlema, even her father. There was something in the way Enjolras spoke, with such conviction and certainty, that allowed her to believe his words, for a moment.

“I understand,” she began, “That this fight will be necessary for real change. That if it may not enact immediate redemption for France, it will lead to bigger, better attempts. The words you speak to me,” She gulps and licks her lips, brandy embedded on her tongue and oddly wishing Enjolras’ lips were there to taste it for himself, “And to others, they make up the speech that drives your revolution.”

“ _Our_ revolution,” He corrected. “You say such things, yet with our talks I find it is _you_ inspiring _me_. I ought to allow you your own soapbox, mademoiselle.” 

The words caused Éponine’s pale cheeks to turn a sullied pink, though she assumed the dirt caking them was enough of a disguise.

“These are words I will reserve for you, monsieur. No living soul must know that I have cognitive thought outside of my pure wit.”

He smiled, crooked and heart-racing. His shoulders trembled with laughter that he hadn’t experienced in quite some time, and found that he liked. Previously positioned upright on his bed, Enjolras let his body fall slack and his back meet the mattress. Éponine— finding social convention much too arbitrary, considering the circumstances— followed suit. Their arms brushed, hers bare; his clad in red. Enjolras noted that this was the first time they had been so close.

Silence settled comfortably upon the room, the candles burning awfully dim and both lay unflinching. Neither was looking at the other directly; Enjolras stealing close-eyed glances at the motionless gamine. If not for the small smile gracing her hollowed cheeks, he would have presumed her sleeping. He was nervous, somehow, but not for the days to come. And yet, it was he who took her hand.

“What will you do after the barricades, Monsieur?” She asked, thrumming her bony fingers upon the knuckles of his large ones and quite enjoying the feeling.

His response was simple; absolute, as if he had known his fate before it was muttered aloud, “I will keep fighting. Paris will not be free in a fortnight.”

“Surely you must have an aspiration outside of liberty.” She teased, truthfully not quite minding his response and secretly wishing that she had a sincere passion of her own. Éponine had, truly, spent a larger portion of her life focused on surviving, rather than an aspiration, and it was difficult to conceal her envy for the students of the ABC, who were permitted educations and opportunities that she could never dream of.

“When the war is over, then I will have time to dream of my own future.” Enjolras, feeling an unfamiliar sense of uncertainty at his comment, hesitated, and experienced an odd guilt towards some intruding thoughts. For his recent thoughts were not of the revolution, but of a precocious gamine with a fondness for creeping up to his room at ungodly hours of the night. Liberty was the only love in his heart, he often claimed, with all intent to speak the truth. And yet it was not liberty laying at his side with blush-stricken cheeks.

“How will there be time to think of your future if, every day, you are closer to experiencing it?”

He did not have an answer for her, so he simply did not respond. “And you, Éponine? Your dreams, after emerging from the barricades?” Enjolras questioned, truly curious. The girl rolled onto her stomach, releasing her hold on his hand kicking her shoes off. Her calves bent upwards to rest comfortably on her thighs. Her eyes were open, now, and met his for brief periods. 

“It may seem a bit elementary to _you_ , Monsieur Enjolras,” she began, genuinely embarrassed by her admittance, “but I intend to live, rather than to survive. To get an education, to forget my _pining_ , to rest upon a mattress made not of straw, but of whatever they are made of!” A wistful sigh escaped her, unknowingly. “I may be in _love_ , if He permits it, perchance I find a man with poor enough eyesight. I will work out the technicalities when the time comes and the next winter passes.” 

“It is as honorable of a dream as any other.”

“Not as honorable as fathering the revolution.” She retorted, though the student found his dreams shifting right before his eyes.

Enjolras suddenly sat upright, feeling his own face smolder at the mention of love. He felt that he had truly begun to know Éponine this night, outside of her ‘pure wit’, as she called it. She had a dreamlike quality to her, no doubt dreaming of a future that was beyond him, and for a moment Enjolras became a bit unhinged.

“‘Ponine.” He mumbled, desperately, and gazing at her more intently than he ever had before. She followed suit and began to sit up, if only in attempt to fully meet his gaze. Utterly confused, she blinked. He took her face in his palms, and Éponine found them frightfully warm. “On my life, you will be able to live, and have enough to eat each day, and a place of your own to reside on cold winter nights.” There was a passion in his eyes not unlike his speeches, and for a moment Éponine feared this moment to be all that was. Yet the way he spoke to her was gentle and forgiving.

“I thank you for your kind wishes, Monsieur, though I am not privy as to why my comments lead to this sudden… _closeness_ between us.” She was no less embarrassed than she had been upon her admittance of these aspirations, if not more. Enjolras’ unyielding grasp and the intensity of his stare did nothing to soothe her. He did not grow shy, and his hands did not retreat upon her comment.

“I apologize,” He began, the blood now visible in his flushed face— something Éponine had never seen from anyone, not towards her, “As always, your comments inspire me. I had said not moments before that I only aspire for revolution; for liberty, though I fear this may not be the whole truth.

“That being admitted, Éponine, my eyesight is perfectly fine, and yet, I find myself—” He gulped, and she watched as the lump in his throat bobbed up and down. He began anew. “It is dangerous, in times like these, you must know, to develop an attachment such as this.” She nodded, in a sort of stunned silence. “And _yet_ ,” He continued, a stutter forming, “And yet…”

Gradually, the warmth of his hands was replaced with the bitter night air, cooling her cheeks just so. Enjolras, increasingly frustrated, allowed his fingers to tangle in his golden curls and clutched his head as if he’d just become sick. The courage drained from him, and he could no longer look her in the eyes.

“Enjolras.” She demanded his attention, yet he could not muster up the strength to match her stare. “Please, look at me. You’ve made me truly delighted, though you haven't the gall to meet my eyes.”

Slowly, he _did_ look at her, with the look of a man truly conflicted. She was smiling at him, with warmth in a manner he’d never seen before. Not towards him. “Are you being honest, Monsieur? These are your true feelings?”

“Of course. I seldom speak anything outside of the truth.” Her assurance had given him enough courage to regain his voice, which held the same struggled restraint as before. “Though a recent and dangerous development, I do confess that I’ve felt very… Impartial towards you, Mademoiselle Jondrette. Whether it be your humor, your conviction, your partiality towards _me_ , I am not sure. But when my future comes to mind, you arrive in tow.”

“As you do for me, I’ve learned.” She responded, and that seemed to be the answer Enjolras needed. His courage seemed to be replenished, and his hands retook its rightful position once more. “And, if you are prepared to act as a gentleman, I would like for you to kiss me now.” Éponine said, as she felt the time to be as opportune as any.

He nodded, slowly, and closed his eyes more out of nerves than out of anticipation. His lips shook almost to the point of debilitation, though Éponine’s approached his with confidence and sincerity, so much that it could have been relaxing. And it had been, when they finally brushed his: the first kiss Enjolras had ever bestowed. Eyes shut tightly and nerves aflame, Enjolras seemed to have melted at the contact. His hands roamed south from her face, tracing patterns into her calloused skin and finally opting to take up a space on either side of Éponine’s body. They sat with his chest almost against her now, and she could notice its distinct, rapid rise and fall as she pulled away. Never seeing Enjolras this affected before, she felt an odd mix of pride and elation at the sight.

“If we die tomorrow,” She breathes finally, unafraid, “It would be an honor to die under your cause, Monsieur Enjolras.”

Enjolras thought her oddly grim, though he nodded to otherwise appease her. To him, Eponine was the Les Amis' Patria: a tarnished vision of an otherwise beautiful concept. If the time were to come, he would send her away as an insurgent, not simply because of his feelings for her, but because of the knack she seemed to hold for leadership. Perhaps, if coerced fiercely enough, she would avoid the barricades altogether. Nonetheless, he said, “And if that happens, we will see one another in the afterlife, or the next life, or anything else.”

“But, I believe we both have enough faith in your cause to ensure that this is an unlikely result. In an ideal France, the people need not suffer.” She mused, if only to appease _him_ , and he hummed in agreement. “And together, Enjolras, we will bring France the respect She deserves.”

With those parting words and a gentle squeeze of his hand, she began to rise, eyes scanning haphazardly around the room for her discarded footwear, and anything else in her meager collection of items she may have missed. Her movements felt reluctant and shallow; Enjolras looked on in alarm. “What are you doing?” He asked, puzzled and just a bit dense. His fingers flexed, the brief intimacy gone, and he uncharacteristically yearned for her presence beside him once more.

“Leaving?” She stated, simply, though with the way she inflected her voice, it appeared to be more of a question— a prompt. “It would be awfully disgraceful, had you been found sharing your bed with a peasant woman," her explanation was bald and unyielding, "Gorbeau House awaits me, no matter how deeply I may resent the statement.”

Truthfully, he said, “I wish you would not. I care nothing for societal conventions, ‘Ponine.” After a moment’s deliberation, Enjolras added, “Things will change tomorrow, no matter the outcome. I’d like to spend the night with you.” 

His wording made her blush and she felt abruptly indecent by them, as if she were partaking in something taboo. He was a bit older, and a bit stronger than she, yet Eponine felt no pang of fear in her heart at the thought of spending the night with him. He _did_ seem an honorable man, one who had been kinder to her than perhaps any bourgeois had, yet she did not feel indebted. No, Eponine stripped gently down to her petticoat, stockings, and chemise of her own accord. She'd accepted his embrace without second thought of Gorbeau Tenement, and closed her eyes feeling a rare bout of safety in her actions. Enjolras was not a man to harm others. Though capable of quite terrible things, he would not take advantage of the woman.

So they slept together, a night of fretful rest and half-lidded eyes, of spare words and unspoken thoughts. The outcome of tomorrow was unknown to them, and for once, perhaps in the most important of times, Enjolras was not focused on the future.


End file.
